So, if you were here yesterday and you read Man #33, Just Because There’s a Hole…Part 1, you should have a pretty good idea that we will be covering some delicate territory today, and by delicate territory I mean where your poop comes out. I would like to warn my readers that today we’re going to be moving into an NC-17 rated or maybe even X-rated topic just because I think what happened on my date with Man #33 needs some discussion…

…and I need a cocktail.

I don’t care what you say. Part of the reason I have a blog is so I don’t have to deal with this shit alone. You should go mix yourself a cocktail too.

I’ll take a break here while people get their drinks and anyone who hasn’t read Man #33, Part 1 goes and gets up to speed. After reading Part 1, you have a choice. You can either continue reading at your own risk, or you can opt out until tomorrow when I will be posting pictures of kittens.

Not!

So, where were we?

Oh, yes. Man #33 and I were conversing at Starbuck’s when he suddenly asked me if I would be willing to stick a finger in his ass.

Then I promptly shot chai out of my nose. You might say I was unprepared for the question.

And this, THIS, male readers, THIS is why I hate being asked on a coffee date. It’s not because I’m some prissy bitch who thinks a man needs to spend a bunch of money on dinner. It’s because this is the kind of shit that happens on coffee dates. Coffee dates are for freaky, little men who put as little effort as possible into trying to get laid. They’re for men who are not interested in a relationship and who can’t be bothered trying to impress a woman with dinner, because these men really just want to get fucked in some odd fashion.

I have had several girlfriends tell me they were propositioned for sex in the most inappropriate, why-don’t-you-just-go-pay-a -prostitute way, after merely having coffee with a guy. Even from my own dating chronicles I’ve had two coffee dates now that have turned almost immediately inappropriate, Man #26, The “Masseur” and Man #33, Sphincter Probing Guy. I can understand that dating can be rough on men’s wallets, but the coffee date just reeks of a cheap creep who has some freaky thing he wants to ask for or do and just doesn’t give a shit.

And guys, don’t get all pissy with me for despising the coffee date. Get pissed at your stupid brethren with no game who have fucked up the coffee date for the rest of you. It’s their fault, not mine.

Whew! Ok. Now that I have that off my chest, you might be wondering how I responded to Man #33.

Well, first, I wiped chai from my nose, and since shooting hot chai into the upper regions of my nasal cavity made my eyes water a little, I had to dry my eyes too. Then, with my usual sarcasm sort of stunned out of me, but still inappropriately laughing on the inside, I dryly said, “No, I can’t do that for you,” while trying not to laugh because that would have forced more chai up my nose.

“Ok,” he said, “I had to ask.”

It was strange. He looked so normal. I scrunched up my brow, looked at him quizzically for a second, and asked, “Does this usually work for you?”

“Not usually, but sometimes,” he said.

And there you have it. The fact that occasionally Man #33 will find a woman who is willing to stick a finger in his ass has given him the “confidence” (I’m not sure that’s the right word) to go out on coffee dates and ask women to probe him.

My friend, Sam, asked if he was German.

“He seems very efficient,” she said, “if it’s something he has to have, it’s probably better to ask right away than get 6 dates in and find out the woman won’t do it.”

True enough.

After my date with Man #33, I got to thinking about this ass probing thing. Obviously, this is something that is so important to Man #33 that he has dropped any sense of social decorum, and while, publicly, most heterosexual men act all bravado and jittery about having things stuck up their asses, privately, I am hearing about men wanting this more and more.

I also have enough gay friends to know that the male g-spot can best be accessed via the anus, and stimulating it when a man is about to cum can give him one powerful orgasm.

If I actually chose to wield that kind of power, I might scare myself. (Sorry. That was my inside voice.)

At this point, I’m not saying I’m pro or con to sticking a finger in a man’s ass. I have to think this through. Come along with me on my thought process, please, and bring your cocktail. You’re going to need it.

So, going back to what I know from my gay friends, I know enough to know that a prostate or male g-spot orgasm is supposed to be the best. It’s supposed to make a man’s orgasm stronger and more intense. However, what I have also heard is that in the midst of male-on-male lovemaking things can start to smell…well…a little shitty.

Now, again, from conversations with my gay friends, I know there are some preparatory things that can be done to make everything a little more presentable and pleasant, maybe a shower, maybe some waxing or a shave, maybe some anal bleaching, maybe an enema…maybe you don’t eat the frijoles at the Mexican restaurant. You see what I mean, right?

And here’s my problem. Half the time heterosexual men can’t even be trusted to shower their sweaty ball sack before asking for a blow job. How the hell can we expect that they will wipe their ass, let alone have an enema, before asking you to stick a finger up their butt?

And, I realize that not all homosexual men take these steps either, but I do know that they tend to pay a lot more attention to making the ass presentable than their hetero counterparts.

It’s all about hygiene, people…and orgasms…, which brings me to another thought. What is the best way to stick a finger in a man’s ass when having sex without sacrificing your own orgasm? Like, let’s say you’re in missionary position…do you reach over the back or under the balls to access the man’s ass? I don’t think my arms are that long. Or, what if you’re on top of him and you try to reach back to stick your finger in his ass? That not only seems somewhat acrobatic, but it would also cause you to lean back, taking friction off of you clit, and again, you might be sacrificing your own orgasm to give him his.

I consulted the Kama Sutra on this and none of the positions are shown with a finger in the man’s ass. I think a sideways, kind of scissor position might work, and make it easy to digitize the sphincter, but then what about my clit? Is it going to get what it needs?

You see, I may not be a prissy bitch, but when it comes to my orgasm, I am a selfish bitch.

And I did a little internet research…if you are reading this at work, I don’t recommend searching for “male g-spot orgasm” or “male prostate massage” and opening any links right now. You could get in big trouble.

But I searched the internet, for how a woman could give a man a g-spot orgasm, and as I suspected, most of what I found were images and videos of men on all fours, hairy ass in the air, junk hanging down, with a woman standing behind them with a huge butt plug and some lube.

See what I mean? Where would my clit be in all of this? Standing behind a man dressed as a dominatrix perhaps.

Hmm.

Not really my thing. That’s not going to be sexy or romantic for me. In fact, standing there, looking at my man (when I finally find one) in such a vulnerable position is probably going to be a huge turn off for me.

Ok, but there are supposedly health reasons for “milking” the prostate.” This is something else you should not Google while at work. Apparently, regular milking of the prostate has benefits that keep the prostate healthy and prevent prostate disease by regularly emptying the contents of the prostate gland. As it turns out, your standard lovemaking ejaculation doesn’t get everything emptied out, but a prostate milking does.

Huh. Well, you want your man to be healthy, right? So is this something you want him to do on his own or do you want to be involved?

So, then I had to give this some thought. Let’s just say, hypothetically, that you are in a relationship where your man is a very giving lover. He goes down on you regularly, and is just as interested in your orgasm as you are. What if you want to return the favor by helping him get a male g-spot orgasm?

So, that question led me to a website called Mangasm. This company sells a wide variety of male sex toys, including prostate stimulators. Now, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I watched a couple of the videos, but, I think, a man could insert one of these gadgets before having sex, do all the things needed to get his girl off, and still get his g-spot orgasm too.

A fucking win-win.

So here’s the bottom line. Asking someone to stick a finger up your ass on a first date is WRONG. However, what two consenting adults choose to do to bring each other pleasure in the privacy of their bedroom is not for me to judge, and obviously there are tools out there to make it happen and still preserve your manicure.

It’s true. Given that copper can kill a whole tree, it’s quite possible that the two weeks that copper penny sat in close proximity to my brain as a toddler has caused some irreparable damage. This may account for the twisted way in which my brain works.

However, a couple of years ago, I took the Myers Briggs Personality Assessment. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned this before. It turns out I am an INTJ. This is what the description of my personality type says:

“INTJ Have original minds and great drive for implementing their ideas and achieving their goals. Quickly see patterns in external events and develop long-range explanatory perspectives. When committed, organize a job and carry it through. Skeptical and independent, have high standards of competence and performance – for themselves and others.”

I guess this explains why dual orgasms are so important to me, but it also helps explain why my mind ran through all of these different mangasm possibilities. Wikipedia also has a nice article on the INTJ personality. I’ll just apologize again for how my mind works.

Basically, if we were all sitting around a conference room, trying to decide whether or not to put a finger in a man’s ass, I would be the person, at the last minute, just as everyone else decides to go for it, who will slowly raise a hand and say, “We should get some latex gloves…

Like this:

Anyone who has been a parent, and especially the parent of a pre-schooler, knows that at a young age humans start to explore the various orifices of the body.

I, for example, at the young age of 3, decided to put a penny up my nose.

Then, I went to my mom.

“I have a penny in my nose,” I said.

“A what? Where? You put a penny in your nose?”

“Uh huh,” I said.

She tipped my head back, peering into my nostrils. “No you didn’t,” she exclaimed, looking at me, “You put a penny in your nose?”

“I know I have a penny in my nose cuz I put it there,” I said.

“Did you REALLY put a penny in your nose?”

“Nope,” I said definitively.

See that? Changed my story. I figured I would get in trouble, so instead of coming clean and telling my mother I had stuffed a penny up my nose, I lied and let it stay there.

It stayed there for a couple of weeks during which time I had a…”cold.” My mother was concerned because I had the sniffles. My nose was stuffed up and I couldn’t breathe until one day I let out a big sneeze and the penny flew out of my nose and across the room. Honest to God.

My mother looked at me in shock and disbelief and said, “You DID put a penny up your nose!”

To which I responded, “I told you I did!”

My mother loves telling that story, especially when she’s trying to embarass me. It’s one of her favorites.

Fast forward twenty-some years, and I heard my eldest son, about 5 years old at the time, crying in his room. It wasn’t an “I’m dying. Come save me” cry. It was more like a “I’m so fucked. I’m going to get in trouble” kind of wimper. I opened the door to his bedroom and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“I have a rock in my no-o-o-se,” he said in this pathetic, crying sound.

“How did you get a rock in your nose?”

“It was on my be-e-e-e-eddddd,” he said, sobbing.

This is the kind of fucked up shit kids will say when they realize they have done something really stupid, and they don’t want to take responsibility for it. It was the rock’s fault.

“A rock can’t jump from your bed to your nose. Did YOU put a rock in your nose?”

“Uh huuuuuh.”

Let me just say that any park designer who specifies pea gravel as a playground surfacing material needs to be strung up and pelted with said surfacing material until bloodied. You get pea gravel in shoes and then in the house. Kids are constantly throwing pea gravel at each other, and then they go and stick the shit up their noses.

I started muttering obscenities under my breath. Let’s be honest. I’ve never been good at the nurturing mom role. My boys love me; I know they do. Thank God I had boys. They know I love them, but they also know I’m better launching into action in a crisis than I am in minor kissing boo boo scenarios. We have all just come to terms that someday they will need therapy, and it will be all my fault.

“Ok, come on. Let’s go to the bathroom,” I said.

My son got up and followed me, wimpering, into the bathroom.

Once in the bathroom, I tried to assess the situation. By feeling the outside of his nose, I could tell he had pushed the rock all the way up to the nasal bone. There was no way for me to apply downward pressure to get the thing out. I was silently freaking out, and the last thing I wanted to do was take him to the emergency room. It wasn’t that I was worried about the expense. It was because he did this about a week after his little brother was born. This was one of those regressive kinds of things older siblings do to get attention when the younger, new baby sibling comes home. The last thing I wanted to do was bundle the baby up and haul all of us over to the emergency room.

Luckily, I have a creative mind, I’ve always been a tinkerer, and I’m pretty good at figuring things out. I also grew up in Eastern Montana, out where the men are men and the sheep are nervous. I remembered how the men on the ranch would blow their noses without a handkerchief.

For any of you squeamish folks, I apologize for what is about to follow.

You see, out on the prairie, you just hold one side of your nose, bend over a little at the waist, and blow. The big glob of snot that results is easily flicked off into the wind. So, you see, I brought this prairie wisdom to my situation in the bathroom with my son that day.

“Ok, hold still. I’m going to plug this side of your nose, and I want you to blow as hard as you can. Understand?”

My son nodded at me, still crying, but more calm because Mom had a plan.

“Ok, here we go. BLOW!”

Pfft!

The snotty rock shot out of his nose and pinged around the bathroom. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!

Success! Fucking amazing!

Now, believe it or not, ALL of my boys have put things in their noses, every single one of them. I don’t know if we all have a gene that predisposes us to stuffing shit up our noses, but every single one of us has done it and ever since this first incident, I have handled the situation the same every time. I have become an expert in the projectile blowing of things from the nose.

I think it’s fair to say that we have established that I’m good in a foreign object in an orifice situation, right?

OK. Well, I told you that story so I could tell you this one.

My date with Man #33 started with the usual email volley on OkCupid, and after a few emails we decided we would meet for coffee. I was again putting my Starbuck’s gold card to good use, and while I know some of my male readers are offended by the fact that I think a coffee date is cheap, I have my reasons for despising the coffee date.

I met my date at one of the many Starbuck’s locations at the University Village Mall. We placed our separate orders, and found a comfortable place to sit outside. We made light conversation. He asked me about my job. I asked him about his. We were in the middle of this conversation, everything was going along normally when suddenly my date said, “How would you feel about putting a finger in my ass?”

No. I shit you not. That’s what he said. Seriously. He didn’t even try to sugarcoat the subject like The “Masseur” by telling me that he liked massages…

…massages of his lower intestine that is.

And, for all you squeamish people, I apologize for not warning you like I did above about the snot rocket, but I wanted you to receive the information just like I did, suddenly, caught totally off-guard, kind of like a drive by shooting, an assault on the brain.

It’s called a shocker for a reason, people.

He was just out with it with, “How would you feel about putting a finger in my ass?”

And, I…well, I coughed and tried to hold it together as chai started to shoot from my nose…

Like this:

After the emotional roller coaster I put myself through over Man #31, I still had the problem of telling him about the blog and getting his reaction to reading it before proceeding with a second date. Reasons 11 and 12 of my 13 reasons for Man #31 not to date me were:

11. After my husband left, I started writing a blog called My Dating Prescription of which I doubt you would approve.

12. I use profanity liberally, not so much on a daily basis in the way I speak, but in the writing of the above blog. I also get the impression that you would want a woman who is a little more lady-like.

So, after Man #31 read my 13 reasons not to date me and said he would still like to go out with me again, I insisted that he take a look at the blog and try to get a sense of what exactly he would be getting himself into. These days, it takes a little while to get through the blog. I’ve written 127 blog posts and most of my posts are between 800 and 1200 words. That’s anywhere from 100,000 and 150,000 words. Let’s face it. This dating prescription is starting to feel like a dating epic.

Anyway, while I waited for Man #31’s reaction and questions, I continued on my dating journey.

I had received an email from a man who said he was an active 47-year-old engineer. He was an avid cyclist, so the tale I recount on my online dating profile of my bicycle crash on Lake Washington Boulevard a few years ago had caught his attention. He had apparently had a similar crash, but, rather than landing on his head like I had done, he landed on his hip and broke it.

And, no, landing on my head does not account for my mental state. I’ve always been a little twisted. This isn’t something recent.

Anyway, Man #32 could sympathize with my extended physical therapy experience, and after we talked bikes, he asked me out on a date.

Even through his emails, however, I got a vibe that he was not very adventurous, maybe even a little OCD. He had never been married nor had any children, and it felt like he liked things a certain way, probably a little too uptight for me. Regardless, it was just a date, right?

His desire for control revealed itself more when we started to plan where we were going to go on our date. Although he asked for my suggestions, which I supplied, he promptly vetoed them and decided he wanted to meet at Latona Pub. He did not live in Seattle, but he had gone to Latona Pub before, and apparently, felt comfortable there. I’m willing to go just about anywhere as long as a man isn’t asking me to go eat glorified fast food, like Red Robin or Azteca, so I agreed.

We were supposed to meet at 6 p.m., and I arrived before Man #32. The pub was crowded, so I had to sit at the bar between two handsome men in their thirties. Poor me. While deciding on my beer, I struck up a conversation with both of them. They both recommended the stout, and although I don’t usually drink stouts in the summertime, I went ahead and followed their recommendations.

Man #32 arrived and instead of looking 47 he looked 57. He was wearing a brown silk t-shirt, a tan blazer, and khaki pants. His fiery red hair, although mostly missing on the top, had been sculpted up to a height of about an inch and a half above his scalp and then combed back to cover what was a very large bald spot. The whole thing was sort of see-through, and yet, with the light behind him, it glowed, like a fiery orange halo.

Since Ye Olde Bachelor had arrived, we were able to get a table. I said goodbye to my thirty-something companions. They sort of looked at the two of us as if they could tell we were on a first date, and I suddenly felt self-conscious. Even after we were seated, I noticed people looking at us, like maybe they were wondering what brought the two of us together. I typically get comments that I look 8 years younger than my age, and he clearly looked much older than most 47 year olds.

I always wonder how much men lie about their age.

When we started to order food, Ye Olde Bachelor commented on the restrictive diet he follows, and I started to wonder if that was the reason why his skin looked so old. He made me feel uncomfortable about choosing what I wanted from the menu. He wanted to share something, but then, he was restricted on what he was willing it eat.

It was a fucking pain in the ass if you want to know the truth.

Now, it’s not that I have to have my way all the time. I really don’t, but I started thinking that if a man can’t even give up enough control on a first date to let a woman order what she wants off a bar menu, what would a relationship with him be like? I’ve had experiences where a man ordered my meal for me and it was wonderful. When I was in Rome, for example, I had dinner with a handsome Italian man, and letting him order for me, so I could experience things I didn’t know, was fabulous.

However, Ye Olde Bachelor ordered the chicken quesadilla.

Oh yey!

Throughout the date I made polite conversation, but I was never able to relax. His mannerisms and questions just seemed very uptight and judgemental, and quite frankly, I was not attracted to him at all what with the orange halo and all.

As we left the bar, he walked me towards my car and asked if he could have my email address. He wanted to stay in touch. This is where I did that thing guys do when they say, “I’ll call you.”

I said, “I’ll email it to you.”

“Ok,” he said.

I walked away, got in my car, and drove home. Later than night, I sent Ye Olde Bachelor an email through OkCupid thanking him for the date. I did not include my personal email address.

The next day, I received an email from him. He said,

“I guess since you did not give your email address and/or phone number you don’t want to pursue it further. It’s OK, I thought you were nice but not a strong vibe, huh?”

Rather than just leave him hanging in silence, I responded,

“I had a nice time, but with further thought, felt there were some areas where we differ enough that it would difficult to pursue a relationship. Thanks for meeting me though. I had a nice evening and I enjoyed our conversation.”

Like this:

When it comes to online dating, it’s rare for me to reach out and send the first message. I hate doing it even though plenty of guys have told me they like when a woman makes the first move. It’s not my thing. I just don’t like doing it.

Then one night I was cruising through the profiles on OkCupid and I saw a face I liked. He also had lips I liked. He had a goatee, but he had no out of control flavor saver and the lips were good. Actually, the eyes were good too. He had light brown eyes. Plus, in his picture, he was in a suit. I love a man in a suit. His profile said he was a lawyer. As far as I could tell, things were looking good all the way around.

Then I saw how tall he was. Hmm. He was only 5′-6″.

Decisions, decisions. What the hell, right?

I decided to send him a message anyway.

“Wow, you are a handsome man. However, I am 5′-10″. It appears you are not tall enough to ride the ride. Do you ever opt for just friendship? In what area of law do you specialize?”

I wouldn’t normally lead with the “too short to ride the ride” comment, but I really did not expect a reply given our differences in height and his good looks. Clearly, he would have other dating options, and if I went with a smart ass line like the one above, I could blame that, and not my Amazonian size, when he rejected me.

He sent a message back right away,

“Well, the last woman I dated was your height and I think she would say I managed the ride well. But I get that not all tall women feel comfortable being seen out with shorter men. Too bad that though. Still, who isn’t open to friendship?

I am a criminal defense attorney.

Thank you for the compliment, btw. You are quite the looker yourself.”

Hmm. Well, shit. What could I say to that? I responded,

“Actually, my husband was 5′-7″. It’s really not that big of a deal. I do like wearing my heels though.”

I asked him more about his work, asked if he enjoyed it, and thanked him for his compliment. He commented that he wouldn’t date a woman who didn’t occasionally wear her heels, and then mentioned how often he saw that misspelled as heals on online dating sites. This also scored points with me. I often feel alone in my criticism of grammar and spelling errors. It was nice to know there was a guy out there who noticed that stuff too.

As we exchanged more emails, I made reference to holding some of my cards close, and he joked that he hoped I had them near my chest so he would have an excuse to stare. We used this metaphor of a card game, and I finally said,

“Regarding criminal justice: I’ll reveal a card. Periodically, I go up to Monroe to visit with the Concerned Lifers Organization.”

I haven’t written about it here, except for the little I wrote about the Trayvon Martin case, but I have another, not so little, project I’m working on. By Monroe, I mean the Washington State Reform Unit at Monroe, also known as the State prison. This apparently scored points with Man #31. He responded,

“I like your card. If that is your opener, I anxiously await the rest of your hand.”

Overall, there was a nice mix of humor, sincerity, and intellect in our emails, and I was eager to meet him. Although I wanted to meet Man #31, however, I resisted asking him out on a date. I had already been the one to initiate our interactions, and I felt the request for a date needed to come from him.

Finally, he said he hoped he had convinced the woman running the ride that he was tall enough, and he asked me out for dinner. We agreed to meet at Quinn’s in Capitol Hill.

It was a busy night at Quinn’s, and I got there first. Man #31 had sent me a text message to say he was stuck in traffic and running late. Unfortunately, the hostess was not seating anyone unless the whole party was there, so I parked my ass at the bar and ordered a Guinness. About twenty minutes later, Man #31 arrived and we were taken to our table.

Now, there are two floors at Quinn’s, and we were seated on the second floor. With me walking in front of the attorney that meant he ended up with a good view of my big ass as we climbed the stairs. Thankfully, it turns out Man #31 is a big fan of big asses, and later, during dinner, he complimented me on the view he had while climbing the stairs.

What can I say? Even at my skinniest, ass men have always been attracted to me.

As I had hoped, Man #31 and I had a nice dinner and a great conversation. He was good at both listening and asking questions, and, of course, I wouldn’t have expected anything less from a criminal defense attorney. Dinner went so well, in fact, that I ended up feeling what one might call chemistry, and, as you know, this is not typical for me. It actually felt a little scary.

After I got home, I sent him a text thanking him for the date. He responded and told me that he doesn’t kiss on the first date. I replied that I don’t like it when men assume they can kiss me on the first date,…but we both agreed the chemistry was there.

Phew! Yowza! The second part of my dating prescription quickly came into my mind. My therapist had said,

“If you meet someone you’re immediately attracted to, run!”

Well, fuck! I can’t win. I tried to calm the butterflies in my stomach.

There were a couple of areas where Man #31 and I were different. He believed in God and felt he had been called to do the work he does, and he didn’t drink. Through our conversations we discovered that neither one of these things were really an issue. However, during dinner, he had also revealed that he came from a good, solid, traditional family where everyone for the past two generations had post-graduate degrees. His mother was a strong matriarch and his father had taught him chivalry and respect for women.

For some reason, this terrified me.

As I started to imagine future conversations and questions, I started to panic that I wouldn’t be good enough, and I feared eventually being judged by him. I didn’t come from a nice, happy family where my mother and father were still together after decades of marriage, and, for a multitude of reasons, none of them stemming from my intelligence, I was 36 years old before I got my bachelors degree.

We continued communicating via email after our date, and after a week, my defenses were up and I was in a panic. I couldn’t get my fear under control, and I didn’t want to be judged. I’ve gotten pretty good at going out on first dates, but I felt like I was drowning and out of control now that I was actually attracted to someone.

So, using the card metaphor, I threw up a block in the form of an email and told him I was folding.

“When we started our email conversation a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned keeping my cards close, and I hoped I would feel comfortable revealing more as we got to know each other. However, while I really enjoyed our date and the emails leading up to it, after our date, I ended up feeling like you would need me to be perfect, and, quite frankly, I’m just not. I enjoyed our conversation over dinner immensely, definitely felt chemistry, but all week I’ve been feeling this fear that as you got to know me, you’d realize I don’t fit in your world, the PhDs, the two loving parents, God and all that brings, etc….”

I went on to list 13 unlucky, numbered cards, or reasons, why he would not want to date me and told him that he could pick a card, any card, and let that be the reason for not going out with me again.

Um, yes, at times, I can be pretty fucking neurotic.

Whether I was really folding, bluffing, or going all in, I don’t really know. The fear was palpable and I needed to lay it all on the line.

A few minutes after I pressed send, he sent an email back,

“None of that information dissuades me from being interested but I will be damned if I ever force a woman to return that interest. I am sorry to all my friends and clients who see my life as charmed – I now know it was but didn’t feel at all that way when I was growing up. And I am a person not at all satisfied with who I am, accomplishments notwithstanding.

I think you are smart, engaging and hot. I was glad to get the email. I DO want to go out again. I am also a pretty good friend; in fact, it may be my best quality. I hope one day to be both friend and lover to some (lucky) woman.”

As I read the first sentence, I gasped and started to cry. A few seconds later, he did what I really needed. He picked up the phone and called. I was still crying when I answered the phone. He didn’t make me say anything; he just talked. He reiterated what he had said in his email, but added that, if all of those 13 things added up to the woman he had met at dinner, he was looking forward to finding out more about me.

Like this:

For any of you readers who are in a hurry, I’ll cut right to the chase on this one. There’s not much to say about Man #30 except that I would never fuck him. There. You can go on about your day.

For anyone who wants to stay and find out what happened, please, continue.

Man #30 was a date from OkCupid, and, again, I have to say I am getting more intelligent dates from this website. It’s pretty interesting to note the differences between the caliber of men from one site to another. I don’t know if it is how I’ve written my profile or who the typical members are, but OkCupid seems to be the best free online dating website so far. I take back every negative thing I said about the site. I stand corrected.

Man #30 introduced himself by commenting on the fact that in my profile I mentioned that, according to Myers Briggs, I’m an INTJ. He was an ENTJ although he said he didn’t put much stock in it since he had taken the test online and it said the E meant he was a “moderately expressed extrAvert.” He said he didn’t know if that meant he was “additionally turned or concerned” but that he thought of himself as shyly gregarious. He also said, “…I am detailed oriented. People who don’t understand this call it picky. I’m hoping you won’t, and the way you parsed out some of the OKC questions fuels this hope.” He was a writer and a professor and we went on to discuss the pros and cons of outlines and writing an introduction last.

What can I say? I was not attracted to his picture at all. I wouldn’t have normally given him a second glance, but his writing, attention to details, and the fact that he was also a major dog lover made him definitely worth meeting.

After a few more emails, he asked how I would be spending Bastille Day and if I would like to meet.

(Ok, yes, I realize Bastille Day was almost a month ago. I still have a major backlog of writing to do. Please be patient.)

He had planned to go to the festivities at the Seattle Center. I told him I was initially going to go to Dragonfest in the International District, but after hearing that both I-5 at Mercer and the ramp to Hwy 520 would be closed for part of the day, I thought I should stay near my ‘hood. That meant I would probably avoid Seattle Center and go to Madison Valley for some Bastille Day celebrating. I had heard there was a good deal on wine tasting.

He was down for that, and we agreed to meet in front of Cafe Flora in the afternoon.

Wine tasting at the Bastille Day event was ten dollars for a wine glass, which you carried around from store to store for the tastings. It was fun, and Man #30 was a good wine tasting partner. He seemed to have good taste when it came to bottled grapes. The best white wine of the day was a Semillon from L’Ecole No. 41 in Walla Walla. Most of the stores serving whites had chosen cloyingly sweet Rieslings. One was so bad it needed to be dumped in the bucket.

Ok, I know. Wine tasting is supposed to involve sniffing, swirling, swishing, tasting, and spitting. But, who am I kidding? I’m more of a wine drinker than a wine taster. I only dump when a wine is truly awful, like that really bad Riesling.

L’Ecole No. 41 was also tasting their Syrah, which was very good and put most of the other red wines available to shame. The fact that these are the only two wines I can remember from the whole day, and I tasted them at the end when I had a slight “I don’t spit in the bucket” buzz, should tell you something.

While we were standing at one venue, Man #30 suddenly looked at me and said, “I have to say, you are more beautiful in person than in your pictures.”

(Me blushing.) “Thank you,” I said. It was the second time in a row that a date had told me I looked better in real life than in my profile photos. I must be hitting a new phase. Maybe the wine was giving me a nice glow. Either that or I radiate an irresistible charm when people meet me in person. (It’s too bad you’re reading this. You can’t hear the sarcasm in my voice.) Anyway, the compliment was nice and I accepted it.

During our conversation, Man #30 picked up on the fact that I say Medellin, as in Medellin, Colombia, with a “J” sound for the “ll” instead of a “y” sound. He had lived in Colombia and commented that I said it like the people who are born there. El Professore had lived in Colombia for several years and spoke with an educated Spanish accent. I told him that although I don’t say tortilla with a “j” sound, I do say natilla with a “j”. This caused him to ask if I knew any Colombian recipes, and I rattled off that, in addition to natilla, I can make arepas, sancocho, and a number of things involving pork shoulder, beans, and rice.

Toward the end of our date, my friend, Lourdes, sent me a text message asking if I was at the Bastille Day event. She and I had talked about possibly going to the event together, before I had set up my date with El Professore. However, she had come down with a cold and said she wasn’t feeling up to it.

I sent her a message letting her know I was on a date. This did not dissuade her from saying she was coming to meet me. I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. It would be really weird to have her show up during my date with El Professore, but I had already told her I was on a date and she was coming anyway. I didn’t know what to do.

Maybe my friends think my dates aren’t important to me since I write this blog, but that’s really not the case. I tried to explain to El Professore what had happened and that Lourdes would be joining us, but I could tell he thought it was weird too. Not a good first date impression, I’m afraid.

Luckily, it took Lourdes a while to get there, so my afternoon with El Professore was not completely interrupted. Late in the afternoon, he asked me if I would like to go to dinner, but then Lourdes showed up just in time to go with us. I’m sure he thought I was trying to put up a block by having her there, but that was not my intention at all.

We had a three-some at dinner. We went to have sushi and were seated at a round table. Lourdes ended up choosing a spot between El Professore and I so we were across from each other with her in between. I suppose I could have sat next to him and across from her, but then I was worried that, since I would be facing her, my attention would be too much on her and not him.

It was all very awkward. Lourdes and El Professore struck up a conversation in Spanish, which left me out since I only speak food and phrase book stuff to get me by. We split the check three ways, and when we left the restaurant, El Professore gave me an awkward hug and quickly left.

I had figured we could deposit Lourdes at the bus, and then walk to our cars, but he was gone.

Later, I sent him an email, thanking him for a lovely day, and explained what I felt had happened with Lourdes showing up. I told him I hadn’t known how to handle the situation and I apologized. I received an email back from him saying that he thought I had invited Lourdes as my “wing,” but after hearing more about what happened, he wasn’t sure how he would have handled the situation either.

He was really fun to hang out with, but after the Lourdes incident, we have not scheduled anything else. I doubt that we will. First of all, you see, I’m not that motivated to seek a second date since I have this whole 70 other men to date thing. Plus, I was not physically attracted to him at all. Sometimes, when an ugly guy is really cool, he can grow on you, but I’m not interested in letting that happen.

El Professore wasn’t ugly. More than anything, he was just old looking. At 55, he was the oldest guy I have dated so far. His hair started way back on his head and was not styled in a flattering way. His skin was pale and sort of sallow, and he wore old man clothes.

I think it’s safe to say that big, hunter green plaid is aging on men over 40.

So, although he was really nice and I enjoyed hanging out with him, I could never see myself sleeping with him. He would end up in the friend zone, and I could tell that at some point in the future, like if we would have gone on a second date, he probably would have wanted to kiss me. I didn’t want that to happen.

I’m curious to know how people would have handled the Lourdes situation. Thoughts?

Like this:

As much as I found myself fantasizing about who My Stalker/Super Fan might be, I tried to balance my daydreams with the search for a real-life, flesh and blood date. Despite my earlier resistance to OkCupid, I actually found I was getting emails from more intelligent men through this online dating site than I had from match.com or Plentyoffish.

After several rather long emails with a divorced father of two, I scheduled a date to meet Man #29 in Pioneer Square for a beer and a peanut butter bacon burger at McCoy’s Firehouse. I found him in a booth and he won brownie points right away by telling me that the pictures in my online dating profile didn’t do me justice. Considering how many times men have complained to me that the women they met didn’t look as good in person as they did in their online profile photos, I took this as a huge compliment.

We had a great conversation. He happened to be one of my favorite types, the well-read, intelligent, technology geek. He also happened to live in a very nice zip code. He told me all about his days with a local software company, how he had worked on a couple of business start-ups, and how he had thrown million dollar fundraisers. It was all very impressive. I found myself feeling slightly inadequate.

He elaborated on his divorce. He had been married to an executive at another local technology company, and when they had children, he quit his job to stay home with them. At this point, it had been ten years since he had worked outside the home. He had won a large child support and alimony settlement in the divorce, which allowed him to continue to stay home and care for his children.

I told him I was working on my legacy project. (Believe it or not, it’s not a dating blog.) I covered the major project details as well as some other things I had in the hopper. Man #29 and I got along great, and ended up talking over our beers until 11 o’clock at night. Toward the end of the evening, in a very awkward, stuttering, bumbling fashion, he asked if I would go out with him again.

I found it rather charming in an “oh my god, I’m rendering him almost speechless” kind of way, and, smiling, I said, “I would love that.”

He walked me to my car, gave me an awkward kiss, and we parted.

The next day I received an email thanking me for the date. Most men forget to say thank you, maybe they don’t think it’s necessary, or maybe they don’t have any manners, but this guy was doing everything right. I responded in kind.

A few days later, I had an email from Man #29 asking me if I would accompany him to dinner at Metropolitan Grill. He had seen an article about some free-range wild boar from Spain they were serving, wanted a date, and worried that I would think him less environmentally conscious because of it. This is how I responded,

“Wild boar is one of my favorite things. If this is even remotely related in taste and texture to the cinghiale I had in Italy, I will look forward to having an orgasm in the restaurant, with moaning and eye rolling included, like Sally, in When Harry Met Sally, only I won’t have to fake it. In recent years, I have tried everything that has popped up in the news claiming a resemblance to wild boar and usually been disappointed, but I don’t want to prejudge. I assume the chef at the Met knows what he’s doing.

So, in my quest for amazing pork, my answer would be yes, yes,…YES!

Instead of thinking that it’s not green, think about the fact that it’s free-range.

Ciao and chow!”

I had to say yes. I mean the damn thing spent its days wandering around the European forest eating fresh acorns for fuck sake. How could I say no? We set a date for our porkfest and I eagerly awaited my foodgasm.

In the meantime, I got bored one evening and asked Man #29 if he could step out for an impromptu date. He agreed, and we again found ourselves conversing over beers and bar food. During this date, he started to tell me more about how his wife had been a runaway wife, how he had continual drama with his ex, and some discipline problems with his teenage son. I listened attentively, and injected comments and questions where it seemed appropriate. He complained that he was still very much at his ex’s beck and call.

“Why don’t you set some boundaries?”

“Well, she pays me a lot of money, so I try not to rock the boat,” he said.

Oh dear, I thought. He got the kids, but his wife still had custody of his balls. I wanted to see the good things about him, but I don’t deal well with other people’s drama, especially when it’s coming from an out of control ex. This second date was merely ok, since it mostly consisted of talk of his home drama. I’m all for letting a man vent, but at the end of the night, I felt emotionally fatigued.

I was enjoying our exchange of intelligent emails, and I wasn’t ready to write him off over a dominating ex just yet. I kept my date for porkfest.

Like this:

No, before you ask, I can neither confirm nor deny the endowedness of The Chinaman. I didn’t go there.

I can also neither confirm nor deny via the internet whether or not the word endowedness is a real word. I fear it is one of those words people make up and use until it becomes common in the English language, like misunderestimated.

Could someone verify this for me, please?

Anyway, I’m feeling a little beat up lately. I’m not going to be a big crybaby, but I am going to whine about it for the next few sentences paragraphs. You see, I don’t think I need my readers picking my dates for me. I know what I like in a man, and I knew there was nothing to pursue with The Chinaman before I ever went on a date with him. I only went because some of you who shall remain…(Kathy, Kat, and Will) …said I needed to step out of my box and start asking men out. Then, there was all this crap about the qualities I liked about him, how we had sought each other out throughout the evening, yada, yada, yada.

Plus, lately some of my friends have been alluding to this idea that I need to keep my dates around after I date them. To which I have to ask…

…WHY?

Do you people think I’m lonely?

According to Facebook, I have more friendships than I can reasonably be expected to maintain. I am not lacking in friends. Scratch that. I have a lot of acquaintances. I have a handful of friends. My friends are people I can summon in the middle of the night if there is an emergency. My friends know about my shady shenanigans, and they love me anyway. My friends know when to stop asking questions and just hand me the fucking corkscrew.

I don’t need to go around acquiring a stable of male friends. I’m looking for a romantic partner, someone for a long-term relationship, and someday, someday soon I hope, before everything shrivels up and falls apart, I would like to get laid.

But I digress, and I’m ranting again. I don’t want to rant. I just want to say that from now on I will be following my own compass. Thank you very much.

So, you’re probably wondering what happened with The Chinaman. Well, the acquisition of this date actually ended up being far more involved than I anticipated. Hence my justification for the above whining. Since The Chinaman and I had not exchanged numbers on the night of the party, I had to go through the hostess to let him know I was interested in seeing him again. I contacted the hostess of the singles’ party where The Chinaman and I had met. I had to provide his name and the tidbit he had provided, and she sent him an email, informing him of my interest.

See, right there, I knew I was sending the wrong signal, or at the very least, a signal that might be too strong for my actual intention.

Within a few days, I received an email from The Chinaman and we lobbed a few more emails back and forth before settling on a date and time to meet again.

We met and ate sushi at Blue C Sushi. You may remember that The Chinaman’s claim to fame was that he could clean out a buffet, and this was apparent as I watched the plates stack up on his side of the table. I had my usual spider roll, salmon, and cream puff for dessert.

We talked much like we had on the night of the singles’ party. It was a banter filled with mostly meaningless information. Neither one of us was really digging very hard for the kind of information you might be seeking if you’re actually seeking a relationship if you know what I mean. It was just chit-chat. It was nice. It wasn’t awkward. It just wasn’t anything to write home about, and I think it left The Chinaman wondering why I had contacted him for a date.

At the end of the night, he walked me to my car, gave me a peck on the cheek, and we said goodnight. Although The Chinaman is a really nice guy, he is too fine boned for me to find him sexually attractive. I’m also not going to keep him around in the friend zone, and, quite honestly, I don’t think most guys want to be “just friends” with a woman anyway. I happen to believe Billy Crystal’s character, Harry, in “When Harry Met Sally…”

Men and women can’t be friends.

I don’t care how intellectually attractive a man may be; if you can’t see yourself having sex with him at some point, it’s best to just release him back out into the pond. I might see The Chinaman at next year’s singles’ party, but we won’t be going out on a date again.

And finally, after a few more emails with The Flavor Saver, I have also decided that I won’t be going back for any more facial hair up the nose action either.

I don’t know. Am I wrong? How do guys really feel about being in the friend zone?

The photo at the top of this post is from Grammarly on Facebook. Go LIKE them.